


Darling Coda: The Portrait

by agelade



Series: Darling Verse [4]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-24
Updated: 2010-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agelade/pseuds/agelade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4th April, 2000: Draco has gone traveling to foreign lands to escape the wearing task of being disliked by strangers on the street everywhere in Britain he goes.  As usual, and due to his own folly, trouble finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling Coda: The Portrait

_4th_ _April, 2000_

Jeans were scratchy. He'd never get used to them, but drinking certainly helped him forget he was wearing them, and the leather jacket and the decidedly Muggle trainers. The whiskey didn't quite blot out the horrible little Muggle town he was in, but that could hardly be helped.

"Hey stranger."

Draco Malfoy looked up at the waitress with a scowl on his face. "I didn't do it," he said immediately.

Her bright smile faded and she slid into the chair across the table from him. "I didn't say you did anything, Stephen."

He almost flinched. It was such a normal name, such a _Muggle_ name. It didn't have anything to it, no... gravitas or anything. Although it wasn't as if "Pansy" had, or "Gregory" or... He swallowed roughly.  Vinny. Still. He missed his own. It had meaning.

"Fine," he sighed wearily, tapping his fingers around the mouth of the stout, not-quite-clean whiskey glass.

"You okay?"

Draco blew hair from his face in a huff and said, "Yes, fine."

She didn't appear convinced, but let it go. "What'd you think I thought you did, anyway?"

Draco twisted up his mouth. "Nothing. Reflex."

"You know, you're not allowed to drink that here."

Draco raised a brow. "And?"

She shrugged. "I mean no one here is gonna throw you out or anything. Just thought you should know, in the States you have to be 21."

"How did you know I'm not?"

She laughed. "Cuz you just told me."

Draco grinned lopsidedly in spite of himself, relaxing a little. "You got me," he agreed passively. Then he pointed at her decisively and said, "D'you want to see a movie with me?"

The waitress grinned back at him and nodded. "Yes I do." She looked up at a barked order from the cook behind the bar and looked back at Draco apologetically. "I better go. I'll meet you back home around 8, then we can go?"

Draco nodded, only slightly forcing the cheerfulness. If there was one thing that could take one's mind off self-imposed exile in tedious foreign lands, it was the promise of getting laid, even if she _was_ a Muggle.

Her name was Vicky, and she had a horrible ex-boyfriend which she talked about ad nauseum, starting from two minutes after he'd awakened on her sofa two weeks earlier and going on until just about a minute before he was about to strangle her, then they went to sleep and started over again the next day. Draco tried not to roll his eyes, because when they'd made formal introductions that first morning, she'd had a black eye and a split lip that he'd been 85% sure was his fault.

She said she'd found him passed out in the middle of a small park at three in the morning, stinking drunk and having just been the victim of a robbery, but the shadowy recollections he had of the night put her in the thick of the action, whatever it had been. He'd had no ID on him that would suggest he was anything but a drunken hobo, and if the image had been shattered by the wad of Muggle cash he'd had on his person, the robber didn't bother asking about it. He woke up on her couch with a reeling hangover, a swollen half of a face, and some ribs that screamed bloody murder at him whenever he moved too quickly, only vaguely aware that he'd walked-slash-been-drug from the park by someone a bit shorter than he was and who smelled quite a lot better.

Of course he hadn't _meant_ to smell or be drunk or get robbed. It was a longish story that didn't bear retelling, but suffice it to say, he felt a lot better after having soaked in her teensy bathtub for about a million years, during which she did his laundry and found him a shirt to replace the one covered in his blood. His wand had been tucked into a long pocket in his jeans, something that'd become habit in the year just before the DL's defeat, and which seemed like a good idea to keep up when the trials ended and he needed to get out of Britain for a while. He'd thought France, but as soon as he'd brought it up, his mother and father had immediately started in on their plans together, and he found an excuse to change his mind about the Continent. Mum and Pop would sooner volunteer at St Mungo's than go to the Colonies for any length of time, which suited him just fine.

He keyed himself into the front door of the little house about an hour after their conversation. He had another hour before Vicky came home, and he intended to use the time to remind himself that he was still a Wizard.

Except that without someone to duel, there wasn't much to do in Mid-Western America in a tiny house at 7 in the afternoon but _chores_. Disgusting.

He did them, of course. As much as he wanted to cling to the way things used to be, there was really no use pretending anything was as they'd been. Yes, fine, they still had Elves at the Manor. Sure, if he'd been home, they'd be getting lavish meals cooked for them every evening and for the most part, they'd be living the same sort of lives they'd always had. But he wasn't there, and he hadn't yet found Wizards in America, let alone House Elves. America was _huge_; it was probably a lot easier for Colonial Wizards to hide from the Muggle population.

"I do wish you'd stop rubbing my face."

Draco jumped at the sudden voice in the otherwise silent room. Then he pulled the locket from his pocket and frowned apologetically at it. "Sorry, Professor," he mumbled, collapsing onto the sofa.

"Where are we, then?" The portrait of Snape looked around the room dispassionately.

"Still in America," Draco replied listlessly. "Uh... home of the World's Largest Pancake. Could I ask you something?"

Professor Snape nodded, looking sour.

"Are you angry with me, for taking your portrait?"

"Still bothered about that?" Snape replied. "As I have said, Mister Malfoy, this was my choice, not yours. Although I realise you could have refused to take it," he allowed.

"You _said_ you'd rather be alone than hang about with those other portraits," Draco pointed out. "But you're not alone. You're with me, when you could be... anywhere else. You could have stayed in a portrait at the Manor."

"We have had this conversation already, Mister Malfoy. Can you possibly think of any reason I might not want to be at Malfoy Manor for the rest of ... well. Forever."

Draco shrugged distractedly, tracing the rim of the silver locket with his thumb. The tiny portrait of Snape watched the impinging digit with distaste.

"_Mister_ Malfoy," he warned.

"Oh, sorry," Draco murmured, tucking his thumb into his palm. "I just - you belong with the rest of them. You were a Headmaster. A damned good one, considering what you had to do."

"Language, Mister Malfoy."

Draco stared at the painting, eyes welling up. _Language, Mister Malfoy. Language. Mister Malfoy._ "I'm sorry," he breathed.

Snape looked thoughtful, then he said: "Are you _drunk_?"

"Not so much, any more," Draco sighed unhappily. "So can I ask why?"

"Why, which?"

"Why'd you choose this? Why not hang in the Headmaster's office where you belong?"

"I never belonged there!" Snape shot back. "I was never a true Headmaster, because Hogwarts wasn't a school when I ran it, just a building full of terrified children, every single one of you." Snape shut his mouth with a snap, possibly realising he'd gotten a little impassioned. He cleared his throat and turned away a bit. "I even frightened you, didn't I?"

Draco nodded. "But I needed it. It kept me alive. You kept me alive, and everyone else who survived. It was you who saved us." They watched each other in quiet contemplation for a moment before Draco sniffed and added, "I figured it out, you know. Just before..."

Snape nodded reluctantly. "I was afraid you would."

"I'm a good Occlumens," Draco rushed to reassure, but Snape cut him off.

"You're a decent Occlumens without much real battle experience," the Professor corrected mildly. "If you'd figured it out earlier... I fear what might have happened. You would certainly be dead. Probably, Potter would have failed. The world would be a very different place."

Draco frowned at him, at the stupid portrait which could never really capture the Professor who'd put his life on the line for whatever reason to make sure Draco survived his school years. His eyes weren't alive. Even impassioned, his voice was tinny and sounded like a Muggle recording. Perhaps that was why each _Mister Malfoy_ socked him in the gut afresh. It was just exactly like him, like any of the several million times he'd said it in exasperation, and yet it was just so determinedly _not alive_ \- "Ah," Draco mumbled, swiping at his eyes. "Yeah, probably. You... you knew though. Going in that night. You knew what was going to happen."

The portrait of Snape nodded shortly, as though he were annoyed at the personal nature of the question.

"Potter has a memory, they showed it at the trials. You kept trying to get away, to go back to the castle. If you knew what had to happen-" Draco shook his head. He'd been trying not to ask this question on the rare occasions he and the Professor's portrait talked. He looked off, trying to collect his thoughts. "I assumed it was a plan. To trick uh... him. Into thinking he'd succeeded, so when he went up against Potter, he'd be caught." He waited for Snape to nod. "So then why did you keep trying to get away? You could have ruined everything." Indeed, Draco'd played the scene over and over again in his mind; Snape making up excuses to get back to the castle, to look for the boy, to be useful elsewhere. At the time of the trials, Draco'd assumed it was just your typical putting-off-death routine, until he'd put a bit more thought into it. Snape had risked everything just to save himself, and after everything Draco'd had to do during that year on very little information and a whole lot of stress, it'd pissed him off. "Just to save yourself, you could have threatened everything!"

Snape regarded him coolly. He wouldn't have an answer. He was just a painting. There was a reason Draco'd been keeping his anger to himself; it wouldn't do to piss off the only Wizarding company he had. But then the professor said: "I _was_ trying to get to the boy."

Draco frowned at him.

"I was trying to get to _you_, you brainless nitwit."

"What?"

Snape sighed. "You were close to figuring it out. Death Eaters were about to storm the castle. I knew a knot of them had it in for you, jealous or looking to prove something. One or two of them who never believed I was really on the Dark Lord's side suspected me of having other reasons to protect you and thought you might be important."

"But-"

"There were Death Eaters trying to kill or capture you, specifically, Draco!" Snape repeated, irritated.

Draco clicked his tongue against his teeth, annoyed. "Can you just let me finish a sentence!" Snape glowered, but stayed silent. "I was going to say that you couldn't just give up the war for me. That would have been horrible, _and_ I probably would have died anyway. And as you were about to die, protecting me wouldn't have helped you."

Snape kept glowering, and Draco smirked a little, having apparently won. "Be that as it may," Snape started, and kept on louder over Draco's triumphant bark of laughter. "_If_ you had been captured and brought before the Dark Lord, and he'd killed you even without realising what you were, the war would have been over whether I perished that night or not."

Draco sobered swiftly at the realisation. "Well gee. Thanks then. I guess."

"Don't get me wrong, Mister Malfoy," Snape said quietly. "There never was a second Oath to protect your life."

Draco stared. "What?" he said dumbly.

"There never was a second Oath."

"Then... why...?"

Snape sighed. "Because I cared about you, you ungrateful little toad. Because I saw you could have shed your little snot ways and become a decent, happy man. Because I've watched a lot of children grow up with Death Eater parents and most of them are dull horrible little wretches because they just haven't got the spirit to pick themselves up, as you always have." The tiny Snape shrugged. "Even if it did manifest as an abominable temper and predilection toward torturing your Muggle-born school-mates."

"I'm impressed you thought about me often enough to have an opinion," Draco replied mildly.

Snape looked off. "You were just always _there_," he said back. "Think I'll be going now. Be a happy man, Mister Malfoy. After all, that was the whole point."

Draco nodded. "I will. And professor," he added hastily. He waited for Snape to turn back to him, then smiled a little awkwardly and said, "I cared about you too."

Snape's eyes widened, a little colour in his otherwise sallow cheeks. He cleared his throat and looked off over Draco's shoulder, then frowned and froze in place.

Draco paused and traced his thumb down the picture, now still like any horrible Muggle photograph. Unbidden, a kind of sadness overwhelmed him. Professor Snape should never be so still unless he was silently judging whether you deserved detention, dammit! But before he do anything more than add another reason onto his list of why Muggles were still abominable creatures even if they apparently weren't horrible little cockroaches after all, the locket was snatched up from his hands by someone behind him.

Draco spun, expecting to see Vicky, explanations of whatever conversation she might have overheard dying on his lips when he saw it wasn't her. "Give that back," he growled.

"Well well well, this is a surprise. Thought we left you in the park, little guy."

Draco quirked a brow. Firstly, he wasn't little. Svelte, maybe, but tall. Of course, here in America they apparently grew half-giants. Secondly, the park? And was that a new gold wristwatch? Draco lowered his brows in anger. "Give that back, and the go-- money you took from me. And the watch," he added as an afterthought. The part of his brain that wasn't in charge any more thought giddily that he'd like to show it to Arthur Weasley and watch him drool.

"If you give me back my shirt," the guy said, "I'll _think_ about it."

Draco frowned down at his shirt - the shirt Vicky had found for him that first night when his had been unsalvageable. "You're the horrible boyfriend," he realised.

The guy sauntered around the room, knocking things off shelves. "Did she really say horrible?" he laughed.

"Funny, I'd have thought she'd date someone good-looking, and not forty," Draco spat back.

The guy glowered at him and stalked toward him, dangling the locket. "Yeah well you don't have much better taste!"

Draco's eyes went wide. Him and the _professor_? EW. "That's not-"

"I cared about you tooOOoo," the ex-boyfriend crooned, then he shoved the locket into his pocket and balled up a fist. "I don't need to tell you what we think of your kind around here, do I?"

_My kind, huh?_ Draco thought, reaching for the wand in his pocket. But the ministry was still watching him for signs of evil, and he'd gone through a lot to keep himself and his family out of Azkaban. Wasting all of that on this guy would be a dumb move. It'd have to be fisticuffs. "So what excuse did you use to hit _her_, then," Draco snarled. "See, I know _your_ kind, right?" He stalked toward the ex, rapidly trying to stuff away those insistent nagging alarms that said _you can sooo not win this fight without magic_. The fact was, he recognised a kindred spirit, and it was annoying to be confronted with his own flaws mirrored back to him. "It's nice to be in control, isn't it? Like you're the one with the power? I know a little something about that." And he thought of Liddy and Luna and his father, and of himself, whom he had been fighting for years.

"Oh yeah?" the guy said. "I'da figured you for a - what do you people call it. A bottom." He took the final few steps between them and casually gnarled his fists into Draco's shirtfront, looking him over. "I bet you like to take it, huh," he growled, shaking him.

"Not particularly," Draco spat. "I _do_ like nailing your lady," he hissed, then lobbed a wild swing toward the guy's face. He'd beat up a House Elf, surely he could take a Muggle.

A moment later, he realised there were actually several differences between Muggles and House Elves, not the least of which was that Muggles were generally twice their size or more, particularly when the Muggle used for comparison was a slightly beefy practitioner of American Football. In seconds, the hayseed American had not only ducked his swing, but had socked him in the gut. "Nice try, fag," he growled, one meaty hand around the back of Draco's neck as he bent double. "She'd never go for a skinny fairy like you."

Draco winced embarrassingly as the guy shook him, trying to get his bearings. Giddy echoes of _Bad fairy_ rang through his memory, slightly comforting him with the knowledge that immature arseholes were the same in America as they were in Britain. "She certainly did last night!" Draco shot back, bashing his head blindly backwards. He connected with the American's nose pretty solidly and was let go to steady himself with the bookshelf. For a moment, the two of them caught their breath, watching each other.

Then, without further banter, the American launched himself at Draco, crashing them both into the assembly-required bookshelf and dashing the contents and the shelves themselves to the ground. Glass things shattered, books fluttered. Draco landed wrongly on his hand and bit back a cry, a distraction long enough that the American got himself together faster than Draco could. He scrambled over to throw himself on the blond Brit heavily, whooshing the air out of Draco's lungs.

"'geroff!" Draco bit out, straining to dislodge the ex from his back.

Vicky's ex chuckled even as he took the time to catch his own breath. With a satisfaction that sickened Draco, he leaned forward to press Draco's face into the floor, yanking his arm by the wrist to twist up behind his back, situating himself so that his feet dug into Draco's already bruised ribs. Draco managed not to do anything so embarrassing as whimper, though he did curse through his teeth. Was this life threatening enough to warrant magic use in front of a Muggle? He imagined the Ministry's definitions of "life threatening" for him were a bit different from their definition for, say, Potter. It wasn't like he could reach his wand anyway.

"Stephen!" A moment later, the hulking mass of American arsehole was shoved aside, and before Draco could bother to think how it was possible, he was looking up at Vicky, wand outstretched before her in surprise and elation. She looked at Draco with something approaching chagrin.

Draco stared at her in shock for half a moment before injury kicked in and he groaned, flopping over to ease the pressure on his battered ribcage. "Ow," he said first, then: "What the Hell..."

Vicky knelt next to him, wand still trained on the unconscious ex. "Cripes," she muttered, taking in the fresh cut over his eye and freely bleeding lip. She reached round to the back of his head, drawing in a breath in worry.

"Relax. That's not my blood," he breathed, dropping his head into her palm and closing his eyes. "You could get in a lot of trouble for that, you know," he said then.

She shrugged. "I know what you are. And anyway, it was a life-threatening situation."

Draco opened his eyes then and fixed her with a steely stare. "You haven't the first idea what I am."

"Oh yes I have," she snapped. "I'd been watching you for a week before you decided to stumble drunk from a bar and sleep on a bench in the park."

"What!" Draco sat up in a flash, then doubled over with his arms around himself, biting back a grunt. He fumbled for the wand in his pocket.

"Relax, Malfoy," she said, and he shot her another look, full of terror this time. His face drained of colour.

"What is this," he hissed. "I haven't done anything."

"So you said, just earlier today," she reminded. "Look. Do you really think the Ministry in Britain and the Department of Magical Defence here aren't talking to each other? There was a war on, if you don't remember. Just because he hadn't reached us yet doesn't mean we weren't watching. God you're an idiot."

"Careful, Vicky," he growled. "You'll hurt my feelings."

She softened and put a hand on his shoulder. "We're not watching you because we think you've done something. I'm on the Committee for Reformed Concern." At his blank look, she went on. "I don't know how you do things in Britain, but in the States, we're all up in everyone's business. We have Committees that watch out for people, even if those people don't think they need watching out for." She shrugged. "The CRC is concerned with the... victims of the war who might not be looked after, because of their situation."

Draco frowned thoughtfully, then quirked a brow when he'd worked out her meaning. "I'm not a victim of the war," he assured.

"Oh really? You were raised in a Death Eater household, weren't you?"

"No. I mean, not really. Vo... He didn't come back til I was already in my Fifth Year at school. Before that-"

"Before that, didn't your dad work toward him coming back? He had plans and stuff, right?"

"I don't know anything about that." It was technically true that he'd been kept in the dark. But whatever Lucius had told What's His Face, Draco believed Snape when he said Lucius hadn't been as "loyal" as he'd claimed. He'd been happy just messing about with Arthur Weasley's head.

"Ooof course you don't," she sighed. "You sound pretty well trained. Think back. I bet you have some pretty dark memories."

Draco did, but most of them didn't actually involve his parents, not directly, nor the way he thought she meant. "My parents didn't do anything wrong." Unless you counted certain far-reaching life choices which _did _directly affect him, whether they meant them to or not.

"Draco," Vicky tried again, inching toward him on her knees. "Listen. You got a bad deal. Those trials were a joke. You can get asylum here and a fresh trial that will clear you of _all_ wrong-doing. I have evidence that can even prove that you weren't even-"

"Stop. Just stop right there. You don't know what you're talking about." Draco pulled his feet under him and got up, dabbing at the cut over his eye. "Just drop it."

She got up too. "_Why_?" she insisted. "You're _innocent_!"

"I'm bloody well not!" he shot back. He shook his head and went into their bedroom, where despite his reasonably polite intentions, he'd been sleeping with her for most of the two weeks he'd been staying with her.

She followed him. "Look. We have precedent here when it comes to the doings of people raised in... questionable homes. You were raised to believe certain things and acted on those beliefs while you were still a minor. Whatever dealings your dad had with Mr. Voldemort-"

Draco spun to face her. "Don't you _dare_ say that name! You have _no_ idea, none! That thing _lived_ in my _house_!" he shouted, incensed. "You can't even imagine what it was like, what _he_ was like- You want to please him, and you're terrified of him, and you can't even bear to look at him, and that has _nothing_ to do with my being raised in 'a Death Eater household,' do you understand? Nothing!" He stepped close to her and looked her in the face. "My parents gave me absolutely everything I ever wanted. Do you know why I did what I did - whatever it is you want to believe I did - those two years before That Thing was defeated? Because - and _only_ because - I love my family, no matter what they've done. To me or to anyone else." He paused, then glanced out into the front room, chinning toward the unconscious ex. "He's not family. So what's your excuse?"

Vicky looked stung. "That's - that's none of your business."

"So you can look out for my interests, but I'm not allowed to point out your hypocrisy? Brilliant." He went about the room, stuffing his very few possessions into a bag.

"How do you even know about that?" she insisted.

"Were you ever planning on telling me?"

"Not really," she huffed. "How do you know?" she said again.

Draco paused to sneer at her in derision. Then he reached into the bag and pulled out a dog-eared book. "March 21st-"

"What the hell-!" She lunged for the book, but Draco kept it out of her reach easily.

"Fought with Adam again today," he continued reading. "He thinks I'm having an affair with Malfoy, despite that I've successfully kept under the radar. Malfoy doesn't suspect a thing. Going to follow him again tonight. I'm worried he'll be moving on soon." Draco narrowed his eyes at her. "That split lip, that eye. You didn't get them rescuing me from being mugged at all. You got them earlier that day. From that lout."

Vicky left off trying to get her journal back and slumped onto the bed. "Everything's not just so simple, okay?"

"It was simple two minutes ago, wasn't it? Had me all figured out." But her dejected reluctance to meet his glare made it difficult for him to keep up being angry, so he sighed and sat next to her. "Look. Thanks. I'm sure there are people you can help, all right? But I'm not one of them. I got a slap on the wrist compared to other people, and I earned worse."

"I have evidence-"

"Burn it," Draco suggested softly. "No one wants to hear it any more. Better yet, tell me about it, and I'll clear everything up for you. The short version is, anywhere it looks like I did something for the good side, I can assure you, I did it because it furthered my own selfish ambitions." Not even a lie, that.

"You're only nineteen-"

"I feel a lot older."

"You can't be held responsible-"

"Well what about you then?"

Vicky frowned.

"How old are you?"

"Uh, old enough," she muttered, tucking a hair behind her ear.

"Old enough to be held responsible?"

"For what?"

"For putting up with that guy," Draco said earnestly. "You're a _Witch_. It should be easy to get him to leave you alone even without doing magic in front of him. And if not, just leave. What are you staying for?"

"You don't understand-"

"Nope, I don't," Draco agreed. "And I'm not going to sit here demanding you change and do things my way for your own good. Maybe I should." He shrugged. "Maybe that's what the Good Guys would do. But I'm not them. You're responsible - not for his actions, but for your own. And I'm responsible for mine. Okay?"

"You sound kind of like an after-school special," she laughed weakly.

"What's that?"

"Nevermind." She sniffed and looked at the bag. "So when you said you didn't do it this afternoon, you thought I knew you took my journal."

Draco smiled wanly. "Got it in one. Nice to know my Slytherin sneaking skills are still in tact."

"What's Slytherin?"

"Nevermind. Look. I think I should go. And just so you know for sure that I'm a real bastard who deserves everything he's got and then some, you should know I'm intensely relieved to find I haven't been sleeping with a Muggle these past two weeks."

Just outside of town, Draco plopped onto a rock on the shoulder of the mostly abandoned highway.

"That was a nice touch, at the end."

Draco took the locket from his pocket and tilted it so Snape was lit up by the dying sunlight. "I thought so. Had to discourage her from trying to sell the story to someone else."

"Memory charm would have worked better."

Draco was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I didn't want her to forget our conversation. Or me. Stupid risk, isn't it."

"Not so much, I think." Snape frowned. "You didn't mean it, did you? About her not being a Muggle."

Draco swallowed drily. "I... didn't _want_ to mean it. Does that count?"

"I _want_ it to count," Snape returned humourlessly. "But I suppose it's progress. How are you expecting to move on? Is there a Knight Bus here?"

Draco grinned a little lopsidedly. "Sort of." He looked down the highway for the tell-tale sign of dust clouds, then brightened noticeably when the roar in the distance resolved into the bite of motorcycles in concert. At least twenty of them, all manned by overweight men in leathers and beards.

"Good God," Snape muttered.

"Indeed," Draco intoned in a reasonable imitation of Snape when he was unimpressed. He swung a leg over behind the rider of the nearest motorcycle when it stopped and was instantly inside the glamour, a spacious seat on a bike all to himself, wind in his hair as he kicked off and rejoined the gang, whooping in glee.


End file.
